


Just Another Manic Monday

by JayTRobot



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blow Jobs, But Not Really Let's Be Real, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Father/Son Incest, Incest, M/M, Manic Episode, Mildly Dubious Consent, Restraints, Top Malcolm, kind of, sex as self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 03:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayTRobot/pseuds/JayTRobot
Summary: Malcolm is off his meds, sleep-deprived, and in the middle of a manic episode, looking for a terrible (but satisfying) decision to make.





	Just Another Manic Monday

“I thought we’d moved past the need for restraints during our visits.” His father’s voice held forced patience, the tone of a clearly annoyed parent trying to understand why their child has done something irritating.

Malcolm let his gaze wander all over his father’s form. Wrists and ankles bound, with the wrist cuffs latched to the tether around his waist. Martin looked better, this way. When he was free to move, he had this calm grace, gesturing and sitting comfortably, the king of his high-security realm.

Like this, though, Martin looked like a caged animal. In fact, he looked how Malcolm so frequently felt. Malcolm, who had yet to master his father’s ability to hide his emotions and urges behind a facade of civility.

A facade of civility that the restraints seemed to strip away, like Martin couldn’t maintain both his mask and his patience.

Martin’s hands twitched, not unlike Malcolm’s, and it brought a manic smile to Malcolm’s face.

The guard hadn’t even asked why he wanted his father cuffed, after weeks of visiting without them.

“They look good on you,” Malcolm said, still smiling.

Martin sighed, his jaw clenching, and forced a chuckle. “I’m flattered but you’ll have to forgive me for disagreeing.” His hands twisted against the restraints. “Now. To what do I owe the pleasure of a surprise visit from my boy? Another murder? Nothing’s been on the news.”

Malcolm couldn’t ignore the excitement in his father’s voice when he said, “murder.” It was like a warped echo of his own. The thrill of solving a puzzle, of digging into someone’s mind to see their motivations laid bare, _that_ got Malcolm excited.

Only that.

Or so he told himself.

“I just wanted to visit. I miss you.” Malcolm shifted his weight from one foot to the other, all nervous energy. His brain felt like it was racing a thousand miles an hour, thoughts bouncing around inside of his skull, unable to settle or focus on anything but immediate gratification. “Am I allowed to miss you?”

“Of course,” Martin said, calming, his voice softening. “Of course you are. I miss you too. Every day.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page. Together.” Malcolm laughed and then laughed harder at the look of concern on his father’s face.

“Are you feeling alright, Malcolm? Have you been sleeping?”

Malcolm shook his head, nodded, laughed, then shook his head again. It had been three days since he’d slept and five days since he’d run out of his mood balancers. Mix up at the pharmacy and his own fault, his _own fault_ for putting it off until the last minute. “I’m fine, just a little…” He gestured with his hands, like fireworks. _Blam, blam, blam!_

“Alright…” Martin said slowly, smiling gently, clearly trying not to upset Malcolm, which upset Malcolm.

The way his father’s wrists twisted in the restraints grounded him, though. He watched the motion hungrily.

Malcolm crossed the red line on the floor like it was nothing, closing the space between him and his father with determined steps. When they stood nearly toe-to-toe, he looked up into Martin’s concerned, caged, chaotic, calm eyes then down to his father’s wrists. The little details of it -- Martin’s arm hairs catching on the cuffs, the way his father’s cardigan sat awkwardly, its fall interrupted by metal and plastic -- consumed him.

The need to touch them was undeniable and Malcolm was incapable of denying himself anything, right then. His fingers brushed along the wrist restraints. They were still cool, not yet warmed by his father’s body heat. The irregularities of the connector pins sang against his fingertips.

Martin twisted his hand, brushing his fingers against Malcolm’s wrist, trying to grasp him but failing.

Malcolm watched it happen then entwined his fingers with his father’s. Martin’s skin was warm, almost hot, to the touch. Soft. There were small calluses, though, that hadn’t been there when Malcolm was a child. He recalled a study that said that working out helped prisoners maintain their sanity. It broke up the boredom.

“Dad,” Malcolm said, still looking down at their hands as he brushed his thumb back and forth, back and forth, over Martin’s knuckles. He wasn’t sure how to tell his father that his body was pulled as tight as a bow, that his heart was racing, that all he needed _right that moment_ was to make a stupid, poorly-considered, harmful decision.

“Yes, Malcolm?” Martin said gently.

Malcolm’s hand tightened, squeezing his father’s hard enough to draw a small hiss of breath from Martin. It felt good, to cause that sound. Malcolm looked up again, holding his father’s eyes, eyes that looked...worried.

Martin was _worried_.

Not...not about Malcolm’s mental state -- well, not _only_ loving concern, though that was there too -- but also…

...Martin was worried about what Malcolm might do.

“I won’t hurt you,” Malcolm said, soft, like his father’s softness, a tone that only made the concern in Martin’s eyes worse. Malcolm laughed, realizing that, having his hurt his father, his statement had already been proven unreliable. “I hope I don’t hurt you,” he amended, grinning. “Much.”

Martin smiled and shook his head and huffed a small chuckle. “Malcolm, are you sure you’re alright? You’re not acting like yourself.” He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Malcolm’s, an intimate gesture from someone whose hands weren’t an option for comfort. “Is there anything I can do? To help? I just want to help.”

Malcolm could feel his father’s breath on his face. Martin’s curls tickled at his forehead. The smell of him, his skin, his cologne, even the prison laundry soap, made Malcolm’s head swim. He clenched his teeth, grinding them together, fighting the urge to tilt his head and nip at his father’s lips, neck, shoulders.

It’s rude to simply start biting. 

Or so he’d been told.

“You want me,” Malcolm said, a flat statement, watching Martin’s face intently. He’d known for years but he’d never confronted his father with that knowledge. It was a secret, a dirty secret.

Malcolm’s body ached at the thought. That, to a man who had murdered dozens, _he_ was the dirty little secret.

Martin’s pupils dilated, getting larger, hungrier and, for a moment, Malcolm was lost in them. Lost in the power he had over his father, the man who had subsumed his entire life. Martin huffed a small breath and smiled his dissembling smile and opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t bother denying it,” Malcolm interrupted. “It’s all over you. You might be able to hide your tells from the police or the prison psychologist or mom but you can’t hide them from me.” Because they had so many of the same tells; his father’s were just smaller, more tamed, quieter. “You want me.”

“Malcolm, you must understand, I--”

“I like it.” Malcolm canted his head then, bringing his lips dangerously close to his father’s. “I like knowing that you want to fuck me. Dad.” He grinned and tilted his head back, away from the promise of a kiss.

Martin’s eyes searched Malcolm’s face. “Don’t toy with me, Malcolm,” he said after a moment. Low and threatening, a voice that Malcolm had only heard a handful of times and never directed at him.

Malcolm’s slacks felt too tight. A flush of heat hit his cheeks.

“Or what?” he asked, still grinning. “What could you possibly do to make me regret it, with the guard outside the door and you…” His free hand closed around the metal and plastic between his father’s wrists, giving the cuffs a little tug. “...all wrapped up like a present?”

There it was. In Martin’s eyes, in his face, in his shoulders, just for a flash. That anger. The beast that writhed beneath his skin. But Martin took a steadying breath and gave a soft smile. “I would hope that the cruelty of tormenting a man who has spent the last decade just longing to hear your voice would be enough to stop you,” he chided gently, with a nice pinch of fatherly disappointment thrown in for flavor.

“That’s not going to work,” Malcolm sing-songed. He released his father’s hand but kept the grip on the restraints. With his newly-freed hand, he grabbed a fistful of Martin’s shirt. “You’re always wearing so many layers. Does it get cold in here?” He shook his head. “Forget I asked. Doesn’t matter. So. I’m here to give you what you want. But it’s going to be on my terms.”

Martin’s face remained static. Considering. Blank. But Malcolm saw the tension in his jaw. The way the pulse leap at his throat. He didn’t need to wait for confirmation, or even take in the rest of his father’s body language. The slight jerk on the restraints barely registered. He had everything he needed in his father’s face.

“You’re going to do it,” Malcolm said triumphantly. He laughed. “You’re going to do anything I tell you, just to touch me. So...desperate.” He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. “I like it.”

Martin gave a short, disbelieving chuckle. “You know, Malcolm, it wouldn’t kill you to be polite.”

“I am being polite,” Malcolm said, grinning again. “If I wasn’t being polite, I would’ve already done any of the thousand filthy things that are running through my head.” He leaned in, close, intense. “Sank my teeth into your skin. Rubbed my cock off against your cuffs. Ground my ass on your erection like I was trying to pay for college.” He tilted his head, running his teeth over his bottom lip again. “I’m being _very_ polite.”

Martin made a sound that Malcolm had never heard before. A deep, needy sound, halfway between a growl and a whine. Then Martin nodded. “I can see that.”

Malcolm reached up and pushed his fingers through his father’s messy curls. Martin hadn’t been expecting company. He was usually more tidy, when he knew Malcolm was coming to visit. That thought made Malcolm throb -- both that his father put more care into his appearance when they saw each other and that he’d caught him off-guard and more vulnerable than usual.

Martin Whitly was _never_ vulnerable, not if he could help it.

Cuffed and mussed and looking so _hungry_, though, he approached it.

A feeling of satisfaction, of power, curled in Malcolm’s chest, warm and sinuous and sensual. “Now, Dad, get on your knees.”

Again, that flash of rage, so brief, so quickly controlled. A tolerant smile. “What did you just say to me?” Martin asked, that tone of parental patience back in his voice.

“Sorry, sorry, was I unclear? It’s hard to tell, I’m not sure if I’m…” Malcolm laughed and made a vague gesture with his hands. He fixed a Very Serious look on his father (while fighting down the urge to continue laughing) and continued, “I said -- and I sincerely hope this is coming across -- that if you want to finally get your murdering hands on my cock, that you get on your knees.” He smiled cheerfully and waved his hand at the floor.

Martin shook his head sadly and sighed. “I guess this is what happens when a child is raised by an emotionally absent alcoholic. I should’ve been there for you, Malcolm. And I’m sorry that I wasn’t. I wanted to be, I always wanted to be a part of your--”

“Will you _please_ stop with the attempts at emotional manipulation? For, like, five minutes? Holy shit.” Malcolm laughed again, but it sounded bitter. “Do you want to see how it’s done?” He composed his face and turned big, puppy-dog eyes on his father. He let tears fill them, glistening, threatening to fall. His bottom lip trembled. “Dad, I...I need you, okay? I always have. Please, let me be close to you again. I’m so sorry that I left, I’m so sorry that you’ve been lonely without me.”

There was a moment in which Malcolm was sure that he’d pushed too far. Fear sang in his ribcage. His hand spasmed.

Then Martin smiled. A genuinely happy -- no, _thrilled_ \-- smile.

“Oh, my beautiful boy. We _are_ the same,” Martin said softly, awed, loving, _proud_. Slowly, he sank to his knees. “Keep going. Show me what you can do.” He brushed his lips against the bulge at the front of Malcolm’s slacks.

Triumph roared inside of Malcolm, like a rush of flame, a wildfire that consumed the last of his logic and reason. He took a handful of his father’s curls and gave a little warning tug. “Now who’s being impolite? Ask nicely.”

Martin smirked. “Look what you’ve done to me, Malcolm. Reduced me to a beggar. Does it make you feel good? Does it make you feel _powerful_?”

“To have my father, who has to orchestrate everything, _always_ in control, on his knees? Yes. Yes, it does.” Malcolm smirked right back. He wasn’t far enough gone, however, not to analyze his father. It wasn’t something he could shut off. And he saw the swell of victory that he felt echoed in his father’s eyes.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” Martin leaned forward and caught Malcolm’s belt between his teeth, giving it a brief tug before letting go. “May I?”

His father’s upturned face, the perfect picture of desire and subservience, made Malcolm’s entire body tense, throbbing with need. “Yes. Please. _Fuck_.”

Malcolm’s hands shook as he opened the front of his slacks and freed his aching cock.

As his father’s tongue swept up his shaft the first time, Malcolm felt the gears in his head -- which had been rattling and clanking in the first place -- slip off of their tracks entirely. It was a dizzying moment of abject lust and abject terror; the high from the combination of emotions was enough to carry his mind off to somewhere quieter, somewhere that didn’t have constant screaming inside of his skull, somewhere that was nothing but the heat of his father’s mouth and the wetness of that clever, lying tongue against his cock.

As Malcolm’s cock slid between Martin’s lips, he had to wonder how, exactly, his father had gotten so good at sucking dick. “Dad…” he murmured, head tilting back, wishing he’d sat down. His fingers tightened in his father’s hair, an action that was met with an approving hum that shook him to his core. “You -- ah -- you like that, don’t you? Having my cock in your mouth while I -- fuck, that’s good -- call you dad.”

Another affirmative hum. 

Malcolm realized that he’d robbed his father of the ability to suck him without a degree of awkwardness by insisting on the restraints. Martin was leaned forward, clearly trying to keep his balance without being able to hold on to anything. Still, though, Martin worked his mouth up and down Malcolm’s cock like a starving man. Saliva dripped from his lips onto his bland prison pants, leaving dark spots.

Malcolm moved to hold the base of his cock, to make things easier, then, instead, put his other hand into his father’s hair as well. Almost lazily, his hips met Martin’s rhythm. He thrust forward and Martin choked, just a little, enough to make Malcolm’s heart pound. His fists clenched and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing, just breathing. The urge to do it again, to choke his father with his cock, was nearly overwhelming.

He hated how good hurting people made him feel. How much it made him like his father.

Martin pulled back and Malcolm let him. Martin was breathing heavily, his lips pink and wet, saliva in his beard. He smiled up at Malcolm and said, “Everything alright?”

Malcolm nodded, a little unsteadily. His father looked so good, _so good_ like this. On his knees, restrained, unkempt, vulnerable.

That was it. He looked _vulnerable_.

A shudder chased down Malcolm’s spine and he said, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

Martin’s smile turned into a grin. “And you were supposed to show off the talents you learned from me. All you’ve done so far is pull my hair which, while fun, is a little less than I was hoping for.”

“The talents I learned from you?” Malcolm echoed. Anger curled in his chest, not dampening his arousal but fanning it. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“I always do,” Martin said smugly then leaned forward to take Malcolm’s cock back into his mouth.

“You’ve been attracted to me since I was a teenager,” Malcolm said, his voice a little breathy. His father’s mouth felt amazing. It was easily the best blowjob he’d ever received (though, admittedly, there wasn’t a ton of competition in that particular field). “And, Dad, that’s always made me the one with the power in this relationship. You need me more than I need you. Look at you. Locked away from the world, desperate for any scrap of contact. You--” His breath hissed between his teeth as his father did something enticing with his tongue, moaning around his cock.

A small part of him -- one that wasn’t very loud at the moment thanks to the combination of unbalanced brain chemistry, lust, and power -- felt bad for being so cruel. Malcolm laughed. The fact that he felt bad for being mean to a serial killer _at said serial killer’s request_ was absolutely ridiculous.

He clenched his fists, holding his father’s head in place and fucking into his mouth. It worked better than letting Martin guide the action, since Martin was hobbled and off-balance. His father choked again and Malcolm ignored it. He was going to find his pleasure in his father’s mouth, come hell or high water.

“That’s it, Dad,” he murmured. “Now you’re going to swallow me. Every last drop.”

Martin moaned again, somehow managing to look superior even with his mouth getting fucked. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes that made Malcolm irrationally irritated.

“Is this how mom treated you? Have you always been so...submissive?” Malcolm asked, grinning, thrusting, teetering on the edge of an orgasm.

Anger flashed in Martin’s eyes.

Malcolm tightened his grip. “No, no, none of that. You wanted how you and I are the same. Did you expect to only see the nice parts? The ones you show to me?” He laughed, his right hand spasming, tugging at his father’s curls. “You’re going to swallow me and then _thank_ me for the privilege. Do you want to know why?” Malcolm’s face suddenly went serious, head tilted to one side, giving his father that look he gave when he was reading someone, that look that got called ‘creepy’ more often than not. “Because if you don’t, I’ll never come back.”

Martin’s eyes widened, searching his face, fear plain on his features.

“And if you do, I’ll visit every week and let you suck me off.”

There was a moment of relative silence, the only sound being the filthy, wet noise of Malcolm pounding his cock into his father’s throat. Then an affirmative hum.

The look of fear, of desperation, of loneliness and of love in Martin’s eyes sent Malcolm over the edge. He gave a small, almost startled, shout as his orgasm hit him with the force of a freight train. His father swallowed greedily as he spilled into his mouth. Martin’s huffing sounds became deep moans and he picked up the motion as Malcolm’s rhythm stuttered then failed.

“Fuck…” Malcolm breathed. His head was spinning, images and thoughts smashing together haphazardly. What was he even doing here? He looked down at his father, who was pulling back and awkwardly wiping his mouth on his own shoulder. Right. _Right_. He’d...come to visit his father. He giggled. Well, he certainly had come.

Malcolm sank down to the floor, sitting with his legs crossed, and leaned forward for a kiss. Martin’s beard was wet with spit and, as they both sighed and opened their mouths to each other, Malcolm tasted himself on his father’s tongue.

When they broke apart, Martin gave Malcolm a cagey look. Worried. His father was worried.

But, then again, Martin was almost always worried, when it came to Malcolm.

“I told you that I wouldn’t hurt you much and that was a lie and I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, his voice lazy, almost drunken-sounding. “Is your throat okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Malcolm.” He paused. “Did you mean what you said?” Martin asked, calm and composed, all polite interest.

“Which part?” Malcolm laughed. “The mean things? Not really, no. You’re not the only one that can pretend.” He paused and reached up to fix Martin’s hair. He gave up quickly. The curls were out of control. Quieter, he said, “I wouldn’t stop visiting because you refused me a sexual favor. That’s just...terrible. However…” He grinned. “The other part, about this not being a one-time deal? I think I meant that.”

Martin’s lips thinned, a look of paternal disappointment on his face. “Is that right? You think that I’m so in need of your affection that I’d be willing to let you come here and treat me like your personal sex toy, just to see your face?”

“Yes.” Malcolm shook his head and chuckled. “But that’s not what I meant.” He leaned in and brought his mouth a whisper away from his father’s. “I want to taste you, too.” He pulled back and smiled. “Let’s both hope this feeling sticks around after I’m back on my meds and have a good night’s sleep, hm?”

“Wait, you’re off your medication? Malcolm!” Martin was clearly upset. “You should’ve told me. I never would’ve… You’re not thinking straight!”

“Dad.” Malcolm fixed his father with a genuinely serious look. “I did this. I knew what I was doing. I _know_ what I’m doing.” He sighed. “I love you, as stupid as it is. Because, let’s be honest, still loving you this much after everything you put me through? Stupid as hell.” He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “I’m going home. I’m wiped out, after that. Where did you learn to do that, anyway? Because you’re really good at it.”

Completely ignoring the question, Martin leaned forward and brushed his lips against Malcolm’s, lightly at first, then a firm kiss. When he pulled back, he gently murmured, “Go home. Get some rest. Or try to. I’ll see you soon, hm? And I love you, too.”

Malcolm nodded and rolled to his feet, tucking his softened cock back into his briefs and zipping his slacks.

“Maybe without the restraints next time?” Martin asked, smiling, good-natured.

Malcolm laughed. “Depends on my mood, doesn’t it?” He waved, swayed, laughed, and stumbled to the door, knocking to be let out.

When he glanced back, still riding high on his release and the chaos in his skull, he watched his father smile and wave and smirk, success wild in his eyes. It didn’t faze Malcolm, not right then, why his father would look so damn smug and triumphant. That night, though, he laid awake in his bed, rolling over and over in his head how he’d given his father exactly what he’d wanted. How his illusion of power was exactly that: an illusion.

Martin pulled the strings. Martin _always_ pulled the strings.


End file.
